intangibility
by bellmare
Summary: these memories are the only ones she has that aren't stolen. —Roxas/Naminé.


She notices – and likes – different things about different people.

Of course, this judgment is based purely upon what she sees, what she hears, what she can touch with her hands, what is exposed to her. Subconsciously, she links each facial feature, each part of the body, a particular mannerism or habit, with a different person—one for the thirteen people she knows, has come to known, will know better.

With Xemnas, it is his eyes, so very cat-like, unblinking and burning with a cold, immense intellect which sears her with its intensity whenever she dares to meet his gaze. As for Xigbar, it is his eye_patch_, and what could possibly lie behind it—he jokes about it all the time, and she is never truly sure if there's _really_ a glass eye there, or he keeps a secret stash of candy in the hollow socket – now _that_ sends a shiver down her spine – or if there's nothing there, or if he's not even missing an eye in the first place. With Xaldin, it is his hair, snaking darkly around his scalp in those braided rows (what would it be like if she tried that herself?), and for Vexen, it is his body language, unwittingly expressive, but fascinating to watch—it is from him that she learns how to read the subliminal messages conveyed by an imperceptible narrowing of the eyes, by the quizzical quirk of an eyebrow, by the stiff set of a stubborn jaw.

With Lexaeus, it is his broad shoulders, strong and sturdy enough to support her own meagre mass, as well as the weight of his great tomahawk which nobody but himself can lift. With Zexion, it is his fingers – long, nimble, dexterous, capable of teasing paper into the most intricate of origami shapes, of creating a whole menagerie of shadow-animals upon a walls and with Saïx, it is the clear-cut planes of his face, the way they remain perpetually static, never affording her a glimpse into what goes on in his mind.

She wishes she had such unfathomable inscrutability, that frigid mystique which makes her want to know more of what she _doesn't_.

With Axel, she likes the open expressiveness of his face, the mercurial shift of his (real? feigned? unreal? truefalsetruefalsetrue_falsefalse?_) emotions as they throng across his features, thick and strong. With Demyx, it is his slightly gangly limbs – he is still young, younger than most of the others, not _quite_ fully secure in his own skin yet, she feels – and the ease with which he can launch himself into motion, whirling her around Crooked Ascension as his Dancers twirl and caper around them.

With Luxord, she simply cannot decide: perhaps it is his smile, wry but kind, the deep chuckle which bursts richly from his lungs when she beats him at his own game. Perhaps it is the shell of his ears and the assortment of piercings through them, each silvered ring with a story behind it. As for Marluxia, her skin crawls when she attempts to sift through the jumble of emotions (hatredhatred_hatred_?) which rise like poison vapour when she thinks of him.

In a way, she likes the sound of his voice, the hundred secret insinuations he can convey in a single syllable. She likes the languages of the lords which he speaks with practised ease, likes the soft syllables of Latin and French rolling off his tongue. What she does _not_ like is another matter entirely. The things he says makes her shudder, the deceptively soothing tone likewise.

With Larxene, it is the supple contours of her body, the graceful curves she herself does not sport. Naminé dares to dream, dares to imagine that one day, she'll look something like her, all elegance and inestimable poise, the self-confidence evident in the slope of her shoulders, the ease of her movements, in the provocative swagger of her walk.

Well, maybe not the last part.

But when it comes to Roxas, it is easy enough. It is his hands, and the way they fit in hers. It's the fact that despite they're stained with the blood of the worlds (heartless? humans? neither?), despite the fact that he is the destined Keybearer, fated to harvest hearts for the Organisation, his fingers are gentle when he runs hands down her drawings, when he tries to fold her a palmful of paper stars. It's the way they're larger than hers, calloused and rough where hers are petal-soft and frustratingly _delicate_, and the way it feels when they twine their fingers together, the warmth of his skin dispelling the clammy, uneasy chill of her own.

When she thinks of herself, though, she can find nothing she likes. When she looks into the mirror, she sees sea-pale eyes the colour of ailing, snow-touched forget-me-nots, sees a faded imprint of what should not even _be_. She sees the anomaly, the little memory _witch_ that _is_, and not the princess that never was. She sees awkward angles in place of Larxene's svelte, feline litheness, sees something so hatefully _fragile_, like a porcelain doll, pretty to look at but with no actual function.

If there is anything about herself that she likes, it is that secret spot between her shoulderblades—the place where, she imagines, she would have wings had she been born an angel.

She tells this to Roxas one day, when they sit outside her balcony and stare up at the heart-shaped moon, back-to-back and with heads nestled against one another. From afar, it's as if they're like a single giant domino, black-cloak and white-dress huddled close, ignoring the wind which buffets at their hair and nips away at their exposed faces.

"Someday, I'll fly," she tells him, taking his hand and tracing a line only they can see through the starless skies.

**- - x x x x x - -**

**epilogue. **_This pairing is so sweet C: Usual disclaimers apply. I will totally be writing more about these two baww._


End file.
